Tracitalynne

Darling Husband sent an article suggesting we start a food diary, to find out and perhaps combat the fact that we have some extra poundage.

Today is Thursday, an at-home day for me and Audrey. It’s 11:20a.m. and so far I have ingested:

1.5 homemade melty frosted brownies

1 cup of tea with milk and sugar

1 pita sandwich with The Good Hummus, cucumbers and turkey

1 glass of Lady Grey iced tea with Sinus Clear added, because Sinus Clear is an herbal remedy and tastes like bitter, smoking ass.

Look, kid. I just told you the story about the fairies who come and put sleep dust in little girl’s eyes, and go, “hush, hush”. I told it in my nice and relaxing and patient and sweet voice. I even told you the made up story that was actually the “plot” to the Noggin game we played earlier today. You got to have a snack, your room is the right temperature, bed is comfortable (it’s a Pillow Top, in fact. We don’t even have a pillow top on our own bed).

Here’s the deal. Daddy’s been away for 3 days. Before that, we had a houseful of people for A MONTH. I know this is none of your business and not your job or anything, but Mama Needs Some Lovin’, and You Are Not Helping.

EDITED TO ADD: No sleep until midnight. That’s right, Mid Fucking Night. No lovin’ for mama. Lots of small feet shoved into her belly at odd hours, and a few wake ups that required soothing, but no lovin’. Mama is doing her best not to be in a foul mood today.

I am Patient Zero. There is a virus (”terrorist”) that is using me as a host to spread its mucus-y message to all that come in contact with me, even via g-chat, somehow. The result being nobody will talk to me, and the virus keeps itself alive in my sinuses, infecting and reinfecting me ad nauseum. (pun disturbingly apt)

Now that we are a 3 part family again, rather than an overcrowded, overentertained, locust-like 5 part family, I have a minute to share some fiber plans. Most of this yarn is from a very talented but deeply disturbed yarn hoarder, who decided to destash, and I was one of the lucky recipients. The rest is works in progress and some other stuff I am dying to get to.

First, a WIP that has been hibernating:

What? Socks, two at the same time??? Madness I tell you, madness.

This is my second BSJ, with a matching bonnet in some mmm-tasty Hello Yarn.

This is a basket of special yarn, waiting for Jared to get off his ass and sell me the Big Blue pattern so I can make a Pete sweater.

Oh hai. I am going to be a sweet smushy sweater, all raglan set in sleeves and cute. Yarn from Beaverslide Dry Goods.

This will be a clapotis when it grows up.

Umm, not sure, some kind of cuff or something. In all honesty, I just couldn’t pass up the angora-ness of it.

Our destiny is to be a purple stripey sweater for the tiny Muffin.

Audrey, modeling her father’s future cleverly cabled hat in blue Donegal Tweed

Charcoal grey Cascade 220 misspun into something a bit lighter, I believe. I also believe it wants to be a Pete sweater. I hope I have enough.

Cute tweedy goodness. Haven’t checked the yardage, but I am hoping for a February Lady Sweater for Mum for Xmas.

This is not only what happens in dreams, but it also occasionally happens to my thought process, from thinking to expressing such thought. And you were under the impression I was either slow or addled by drugs? No. No, silly you.

cross referenced with “I Am Old”

At a wedding this weekend, the DJ announces Soulja Boy, and everyone cheers while Pete and I stand around looking puzzled. Perhaps we gum a few prunes and watch Matlock for a minute; I don’t remember. Anyway, about 10 different girls get up and do a choreographed dance to a song I have never heard, not once in my life.

sigh.

For all my other old friends, it’s here.
.

I kind of like it though. It’s going on my Workout playlist on my ancient iPod.

alternately, “Who on earth funded this ill-conceived, horrible, horrible, horrible idea?”

Cross-index with “What the Fuck Is Wrong With You?”

Yesterday I told Audrey we were going for ice cream.
She responded by doing a spazzy little dance and yelling “icecreamicecreamicecreamicecream”.

I did something very similar when I saw THIS.

At a Party:

Her: What’s that on the puppy’s belly?

My poor, long-suffering neighbor, Katy: Erm…those are her nipples.

Her: ???

K: Like…her boobies.

Her, excited: I have some of those!

and lifts her shirt to demonstrate.

K: er…did anyone else see that?

later that same night…

Her: Mama! Mama, the trees! They are staying on the ground!

My Thought Bubble: She’s not wrong…

Then the Big Kid tries to play I Spy with her…

Big Kid: I spy with my little eye…

Her: Nope! I don’t see it!

BK: No, honey, I have to…

Her: I Don’t See It!

BK: Okay, you have to pick something, like a mailbox…

Her: I see one!

BK: Well, yes but…

Her: I see another mailbox! There’s one! They are all staying on the ground! The maaaiiiilllllboxxxxxeeesssss are all staying on the grrrrrooouuuunnnnddddddd.

There is a theory here at The Compound that perhaps a schizophrenic’s brain and a three year old’s brain could be remarkably similar.